Never Asked
by CrispyWolf
Summary: We know that James is Gregory's grandson, but...if he has a grandson, shouldn't he have had a child of his own? Why don't we hear about them? My friend came up with this idea of what we personally think happened. To each their own.


Many guests who arrive at the hotel look at my grandson, James, and question "How?". They never ask me, of course, but I can tell that's what they're thinking. James, of course, is indifferent to his own heritage, so I never spoke about it with him. However, if he asked, I wouldn't know what to tell him.

His grandmother was a woman I only had a brief affair with. I was young and foolish, of course, and so was she. So, we naturally went at it one dark night only to completely disappear from each other's lives the next morning. You could probably say I forgot about her...until about three months later.

I got a call from a number I didn't recognize, so naturally, I couldn't be bother to answer it. It was only hours after that when I listened to the message left on the answering machine that I remembered the woman. She sounded...distraught. Panicked, even. Her voice was trembling from the simple "Hello, Gregory" at the beginning of the message.

There is nothing scarier than learning that a woman is pregnant with your child. Well, except maybe learning that you are pregnant, but thankfully, I've never known that fear. She told me she couldn't keep it, but her parents wouldn't allow her to abort it, either. Unless I was willing to care for the baby, it was to be thrown into an orphanage as soon as it was born. Of course I was able to just walk away from the situation and forget everything, but if I did...how would I live with myself?

I called her back and told her to call me when the baby was born. Surely I would have made a decision by , months passed and I still didn't know what the hell I wanted to do. I wasn't there when she was in labor. I didn't bother going out of my way to see her in the hospital. After I got the call she promised me, I never saw or spoke to her again.

A day after the baby was born, I decided I might as well see the mess I made. I went to the hospital to find that the precious bundle I had was a girl (No, Jame's Grandma wasn't decent enough to tell me the baby's gender over the phone). And let me tell you, the rule on TV shows and movies that states that when a woman gives birth, she always falls in love with the baby even if she didn't want it previously is absolute garbage. The mother of my daughter was gone as soon as she could be, leaving the poor child in the hospital until they were legally allowed to dump her in the orphanage.

I was allowed to hold my daughter and spend as much time with her as I wanted during that visit. Whenever I cradled her, I felt something in my heart that I didn't know was there. Attachment? Love? I hadn't the foggiest idea... However, if there was anything I knew, it was that I hated the idea of my daughter in some crummy orphanage.

I like to think I made her life a thousand times happier by taking her home. As difficult as raising her alone was, it was all worth watching her grow up. I didn't know I could be so good with children, or that I could even be fond of them! The time I spent with my little girl made even my most wretched mother bearable!

As happy as those years were, they passed by much too quickly. Soon, my peppy little girl was a woman out of my protective grasp and into an independent life of her own. I never worried about it too much. She was a smart girl and we always kept in contact.

Of course she ended up falling in love and getting married. I didn't really approve of the fellow she chose; he was some uptight, time-consumed perfectionist. He seemed rather indifferent to my daughter's feelings at times, but I was never one to get in the way. She was happy, so I was happy.

Months later, I learned that I was becoming a grandpa. It was so soon and so unexpected that I wasn't sure I could handle it! If it weren't for the sheer delight written all over my daughter's face, I would've fainted and rolled onto the street, never to be seen again. Of course, like the good father I was, I shared in her joy for a while.

When she was six months pregnant, her husband left her. I went to find her to bring her home and watched as she broke down in tears. I just knew that uppity bastard was no good for my angel! Why, I was so furious, I wanted to track that idiot down and wring his scrawny neck. I spent the next three months wiping her tears and being her only leg to stand on.

The day finally came. She pulled my lazy form out of bed, begging me to get up and take her to the hospital, only for me to spring into action as soon as I was awake enough to realize what was happening. Did I panic? Of course I did; in fact, I thought I'd pass out. Through her straining voice, my daughter assured me that everything would be fine. When we got there, I was told that I was permitted to go into the delivery room with her, but I simply didn't think I could handle it.

I never should've turned that offer down.

The last thing I said to her was that I knew she'd do well and that I couldn't wait to see her with my grandchild. After that, I simply kissed her forehead before she was wheeled away.

Hours passed without a word from her doctor, causing my stomach to knot up into the most complex designs. I was assured by the head desk lady that natural births always took a long time, but there were others in the waiting room that came after I did and were already gone. I shooed away all negative thoughts that came to me, trying desperately to assure myself of how happy my daughter would be when this waiting was finally over, of how cheerfully she'd greet me.

Instead, however, I was greeted by her doctor and his nurse with grim expressions on their faces. The news they had for me shattered my heart into millions of tiny pieces, leaving hardly anything left. I was given this long lecture about how some women have complications when they're having babies, about how sometimes they'll lose too much blood or something to do with an infected uterus. I...I don't know. I couldn't bear to listen.

All I understood was that my daughter, my...my precious little princess was gone.

Gone.

I never heard her cry out for my help, but I have no doubt that she did. She was probably there, screaming in agony, watching as her energy dwindled away while I was sitting in the waiting room wondering why everything was taking so long. I could've been there. I could've held her hand and brushed through her hair while she was being encouraged to keep pushing. But no, she died without a single goodbye or "I love you" from me. Maybe she died because I wasn't there for her, because I didn't bother trying to help her through the pain. No, I knew she did, and I couldn't stand it.

I screamed at the doctor. I blamed him. I hit the nurse. I cried my daughter's name. I subjected blame and hatred on everything around me and ended up being having to be held down into a chair by several people. After that, I cried my eyes out, sobbing into my sleeves and pulling my hair out.

Mama scoffed at me when I told her. She didn't care. She never cared. The only person who ever cared was my daughter, who was now gone. I had nobody. Her mother was probably somewhere on the other side of the world and I didn't have a friend other than the military crafts I collected when I was eight.

All I got was a hug from a novice nurse that I didn't know at the time. She looked me dead in the eyes and told me that I needed to man up for my daughter and take charge of what would happen to her baby. I was too caught up in grief to want to do anything for that blasted child, but I had no choice. My grandson was left alone just like my angel was when she was born.

Well, I took James home just like my angel would have wanted. However, I can't say I've done nearly as good of a job as I did years before. I'm old a still distraught from the loss. I've become far more shut-in since it happened, not to mention I started up the hotel soon after that. It was hard to manage both things at once. Oh, and did I mention James turned out to be a little brat just like his father probably was? Hmph.

Yes, I've hardly any family anymore. Years went by, and whenever I start thinking about it, I never let my emotions show. They say people move on, but have I really? Perhaps that's why I built this hotel.


End file.
